April 22, 2002

It's hard to believe that it has only been one week since we made the decision to let Sam go. It feels like forever, not having his chunky presence around anymore. You don't realize until after they're gone just how integrated they were in everyday life. It's the most seemingly trivial things too that trigger the Sam thoughts.

The way you steal my spot...

Sam had a penchant for taking my place as soon as I vacated it. Bedroom or living room, it didn't matter. The spot wouldn't even have a chance to start cooling down before I'd hear behind me the telltale "Mirrip" that meant he had jumped up and was now making himself quite comfortable, thank you very much. When I'd return to claim my rightful place, he would be settled into such a position of comfort that most of the time I didn't have the heart to move him. He would be propped up in my chair, all haughty looking, and I'd be the one lying on the living room floor.

The way you grab my bum...

Whether it was in the morning as we were about to leave for work or just as way for Sam to say Hi!, he would often walk up behind me, stand on his hind legs and stretch his front legs up as high as they would go on my backside. This would be accompanied by a loud squeaky squawk. Depending on what clothes I was wearing - work or laze about - he would either have a good long stretch while I petted him or gravity would take hold and he'd start to pull my track pants down, exposing the nether regions.

The way you snuggle under my chin...

Sam wasn't an overly affectionate cat in the manner of the other three, but at least once a day - usually in the morning - he would jump up onto the bed, climb onto my chest (oof! 22 lbs of feline flesh is quite the wake up call,) nestle his face under my chin, and root and purr and knead for a few minutes as if he was a kitten again.

The way you gnaw on plastic...

He was downright addicted to the plastic that items like cds and video tapes are packaged in. He could be asleep anywhere; the moment you start to open something and it makes that distinct crinkling sound, he would come shooting to where you were, jump up in front of you and squawk at you until you put the plastic in front of him so he could gnaw on it. He wouldn't chew or swallow the stuff; he'd just crunch and gob cat saliva all over it until you had to remove it from him and toss away the gloopy wet cat-breath-smelling wrapper.

The way you wake me up...

Every morning with the first and tiniest hint of dawn, Sam would start his morning wake up Daddy ritual. First he would sit beside the bed and mroawr at me. He would next begin to dig his claws on my bedside table repeatedly. If I still hadn't acknowledged his presence, he would jump upon the table and paw at the lamp shade, which would thereby tilt and clonk into the wall with each pass. Finally, he would jump onto the bed beside me and: meow in my ear; paw my back; bite my shoulder; repeat until Daddy is awake. If after all this effort I still refused to recognize him, he would curl up against my back and lie there until I finally stirred. One would think that all this effort was due to his wanting breakfast. When I would arise, he would follow me out to the kitchen, jump up onto the table there and gnaw on some cat grass. He would ignore the fresh breakfast completely. He loved routine. Set in his ways, he was our own special curmudgeon.

They can't take that away from me.

Abby, I think, is missing him more than she lets on. She has been doing things this past week that she never would before. She jumps up on the living room furniture to snuggle close to our faces at night. She also is making motions to come outside with us and Megan and Finnegan when we go out to barbecue. She was always a shy cat when it came to strangers. For her to want to venture outside with us shows me that the need for our company is greater than her fear of the unknown. The three of them (and we two) are starting to get used to the 3 cat dynamic. Abby seems more tolerant of Finnegan. She's thwacked him less and has even slept within a foot of him without putting up a fuss.

The apartment doesn't feel the same either. It's like a portion of its soul has been removed, and there's a void to the place where Sam should be. It's hard to describe. But yet...

We've noticed a couple of times the other 3 acting strange. They will perk their heads up and look towards the ceiling, like they're seeing something there. They'll even start baying in cat talk at the spot, then after a brief time curl up and fall asleep. Perhaps a little bit of Sam remains, after all. Seeing the others act like that and thinking that we might have an angel at our sandbox actually made me feel better inside. I could feel the hole punched into my stomach one week ago - a lifetime ago - start to heal. It's a start.

I have to say that the support of family and friends, both live and online, over the last month has been wonderful. We have said it before and we'll say it again now. Thank you all for helping us through this rough time.

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